


The Secret Life of a Piano Player

by vanillafluffy



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Political Animals
Genre: Artist Steve Rogers, Barebacking, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Curtain Fic, Dirty Talk, Happy Ending, Home Improvement, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Non-Serum Steve Rogers, Piano Player TJ Hammond, Sex, Stealth Crossover, off-screen TJ Hammond/Sean Reeves, trading places
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-30 00:50:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18304817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillafluffy/pseuds/vanillafluffy
Summary: When First Son TJ Hammond light-heartedly swaps places with veteran Bucky Barnes, who's being decorated at the White House, it leads to a whole new life for him--with Bucky's boyfriend Steve Rogers.





	The Secret Life of a Piano Player

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nagi_schwarz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/gifts).



> I started this a long, long time ago...like 2016 long ago, for a prompt, "TJ Hammond + Bucky Barnes, trading spaces". Here's to finally getting it finished and posted!

"You're a disgrace to that uniform," the Secret Service agent says, guiding the SUV expertly through DC traffic. “You’re supposed to be a hero? How could you do a thing like go to the White House and commit such an act of disrespect?”

TJ doesn't say anything; it isn't even his uniform. He and the guy who'd been getting lionized at the White House--the guy looked more like TJ than his own (fraternal) twin--did some...um, comparative research, then traded clothes and gone back out to the reception to see if anyone would notice the difference. Apparently, the disarray in the Lincoln bedroom had been reported to someone on the Detail, because TJ, currently in the guise of one Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, has been hustled into said SUV, now headed for Reagan Airport.

"Although I shouldn't be surprised," his driver adds with a curl of his lip. "That Hammond kid has a way of charming the pants off people."

 _Yeah? I'm pretty sure I never tried to charm your pants off_ , he wants to retort, but doesn't, because Agent Barton is at least a decade too old for him, totally not his type, and he wouldn't want him getting the wrong idea.

When they get to Reagan, Barton hands him his itinerary, dumps his duffel bag at the curb, and drives off.

TJ thinks about hailing a cab and going back to the White House to confess. Then he looks at the itinerary in his hand. Barnes is flying into Kennedy Airport in New York! TJ's been to the city a couple times and loves the place. What the hell, Barnes can have his crazy family and he's welcome to them. TJ's going to the Great White Way!

Four hours later, he's beginning to question his impulsive decision. Barnes may be a war hero, but he doesn't have enough cash to take a cab to the city--and TJ has no idea what Barnes's PIN is, so plastic is out. He asks at Information and gets advice on the easiest way to get to the address Barnes has listed on the ID in his wallet.

To the best of his memory, TJ has never taken public transportation before in his life. By the time he arrives at the stop in Brooklyn he's been directed to, he starts to realize how sheltered his life has been.

The building is grungy, but one of the keys on the bunch in his pocket lets him into a cramped foyer. He looks at the row of mailboxes. The draftsman-like printing on the card for 3C says Barnes/Rogers. He checks the contents of the box. There's nothing for Barnes, but Steve Rogers has an art supply catalog and a folded manila envelope that says "Photographs--Do Not Bend".

The third floor is a real climb. The interior of the building is cleaner than the outside, TJ's relieved to see. His relief is short-lived, because when he gets the door to 3C open--it takes three keys--the apartment is an unholy mess.

Dirty dishes are overflowing the sink. The trash hasn't been taken out in way too long--there are flies buzzing around it and it reeks. Investigating the rest of the place, TJ is disgusted. There's only one bedroom (with a queen-size bed). The bed looks like the sheets haven't been changed in weeks--hell, months!--and the floor is strewn with heaps of newspapers and dirty clothes.

Barnes's funds don't lend themselves to a hotel, or he would so be out of there. Whoever this Rogers guy is, TJ already doesn't like him. He's not OCD by any stretch of the imagination, but who lives like this? Against his will, TJ gets to work. Thank god there’s a box of trash bags under the sink.

During the process of cleaning up, he finds clues. Four, no, five asthma inhalers are stashed in various places close to hand, so Rogers must be just this side of an oxygen tank. He finds a new set of linens, still in plastic, in a drawer, along with pristine towels. That's good, because he doesn't have time to find the nearest laundry facilities--but why didn't Rogers put them on the bed and wash the old ones?

Under the litter on the dining table, he finds a partially filled sketch book--the artwork in it is pretty good--and a copy of Rogers's resumé. He's had two years of art school. His work history is checkered...TJ frowns at it, then sees a pattern. Rogers works steadily for six or seven months, but gets laid off in November or December. Then he finds a new job in the spring. That makes sense, given the inhalers...he must be sick all winter, every winter. 

It's currently the first week of May. TJ would bet money, if he had any, that Steve has only been at his latest job, whatever that is, for a few weeks. He's probably too tired to do much more than work, eat and sleep. Maybe a little sketching.... TJ sighs. His mom always told them to put themselves in the other person's shoes. By the looks of things, Steve Rogers probably wears worn-out shoes with the soles held on using duct tape.

There are take-out menus on the fridge, but without cash, that’s not helpful. He’s a little leery about using James Barnes’s credit card without knowing his balance; hopefully the missing roommate can help get dinner. TJ wishes the guy would get his ass home; he’s starving. It's nearly 9 p.m. when keys start throwing the bolts on the door. 

The door opens. TJ figured thin and pale were two adjectives that would probably fit Rogers. He hadn't expected him to be straw-blond or have gorgeous bone structure. Nice...he's always had a thing for blonds. TJ was right about the shoes; the left one is wrapped in silver-grey tape, and the right one has a hole showing sock. His clothes are a size too big for him, as if someone had expected him to grow into them, but he hadn’t.

Rogers looks around the now-tidy space, wincing. He says, "Hi, Bucky", takes off his coat and opens the door of the tiny closet in the entryway to hang it up. TJ has reorganized that, too.

"I didn't know you were getting in today or I would have picked up. I'm really sorry." Steve doesn't quite meet TJ's gaze and he's clearly uncomfortable. “Let me go strip the bed, I got us some new sheets--”

“Don’t worry, it’s done. How’s the new job going?”

“I’m just temping while they do inventory….” His shoulders are hunched like a turtle on the verge of ducking back into its shell, He glances around, and TJ has a feeling he knows what the guy needs. He hands over the nearest inhaler, and Rogers takes a quick puff.

“Do we have any money to get dinner?” TJ wants to know. “I’m tapped.”

“Sure, the household money. It’s in the usual place, Buck.”

“Which is where?”

Steve nods toward the kitchen. “In the yellow pages, filed under ‘M’ for ‘Money’.”

“Shit!” TJ blurts with feeling. The phone book had been four years out of date, and who the hell uses them any more, anyway? “I tossed the damn thing.” He’s ready to run downstairs and start tearing bags open, but Steve intervenes.

“There wasn’t that much in there--I had to get a new subway pass and a haircut for work. I’ve got a few bucks from my last paycheck left after taking care of the bills, I was gonna pay it back. Dinner is the least I can do after all the work you’ve put in. The place looks great.” He hesitates. “I thought you were getting your pay direct deposited.”

“I can’t remember my PIN,” TJ fibs.

Steve blinks at him. “It’s my birthday,” he says, sounding hurt. Great. Only 365 possibilities.

TJ scrubs his face with his hands. He must have been crazy to think he could pull off passing as Barnes. No, the trouble was, he hadn’t planned any of this, it was a spur of the moment idea. He didn’t know Barnes had a roommate…a boyfriend?…anyone at home he’d have to fool. And if he’d planned it, he would’ve made sure he had his own cash and credit cards, because the guy’s budget probably won’t stretch to a pair of tickets to _Hamilton_.

“I’m sorry, Bucky!” Steve’s voice is anxious. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Of course, you’ve been deployed a while, I’m not surprised some details have slipped your mind.”

“It’s been a long day.” TJ means it as an apology, but as he reaches out to give his friend a pat on the shoulder, he sees Steve flinch. What the hell kind of guy is Barnes, anyway? 

Two hours later, after they’ve had Chinese takeout and showers and have climbed into bed, TJ wonders about that again. He kisses Steve, long and slow, not wanting to come on too strong. When their mouths finally part, Steve stares at him and demands, “Who are you, and what have you done with Bucky Barnes?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Bud Hammond had schooled his sons in the fine art of bluffing, but Steve is having none of it.

“One, your appendectomy scar has disappeared. Two, that crooked tooth of yours, isn’t. Three, No way in hell you cleaned the place from top to bottom, you’re a worse slob than I am. Four, Bucky Barnes hates mushrooms. And five, he never kissed like that in his life.”

Cute _and_ smart. TJ knows the jig is up. “We met in DC, noticed the resemblance and decided to switch places.” Thinking of the protocol involved in being First Son, TJ chuckles. Then, at the look on Steve’s face, he sobers. “I wasn’t trying to trick you--I just--I didn’t know he had a roommate. I don’t want to cause trouble, I’ll go to sleep now, and tomorrow I’ll figure out where I’m gonna go.”

Steve rests a shy hand on his hip and leans over to kiss him. “So, what should I call you?”

That’s a really loaded question. Answering to ‘TJ’ or even ‘Thomas’ feels way too obvious. “Maybe you’d better keep calling me Bucky,” he tells Steve finally. “That way you won’t get out of the habit.”

“And the real Bucky is okay?”

“Right now, he’s got it made, except for dealing with my relatives. They’ve got money, but my whole life, everything has been about what makes the right impression and how people are going to react, and I’m so tired of all that--” He breaks off, afraid Steve will put two and two together. “I needed to get away, and here I am.”

“Here _we_ are,” Steve murmurs, his lips kissing their way up TJ’s neck and along his jawline. Oh baby…TJ’s libido kicks in. Aside from his romp with the original Bucky Barnes, TJ hasn’t had sex with anyone but Sean Reeves in months--and that's been because the guy had more to lose from exposure than he did. He simply hasn't had time to go out and find a real boyfriend--being at his mom’s beck and call is a full-time job. He’s touch-starved, aching for the sensation of skin on skin.

Steve responds without hesitation--he hasn’t had any fun in a while either, TJ diagnoses.

They don’t last long, but it’s great while it lasts. Afterward, TJ hugs Steve close. Steve wriggles a little closer. Usually, TJ isn’t the cuddle-bunny type, but tonight it feels natural. His partner nuzzles the side of his neck and confides, “Bucky Barnes does not snuggle.”

Yeah, and TJ Hammond isn’t domestic--but over the course of the next week, Barnes’s bank balance takes some hits as he deep-cleans the apartment, and replaces the old sofa entirely because it’s tattered and filthy beyond steam-cleaning. He ruefully contrasts the cramped apartment with the streamlined bachelor pad Annie decorated for him before she left--but at least this place isn't in his grandmother's attic. TJ keeps meticulous records of how much he’s spent on what--the new used sofa, the new new shower-head, and a decent pair of shoes for Steve, because there are homeless guys with better footwear, honestly.

He’s no gourmet cook, but thanks to his grandmother’s tutelage, TJ can scramble eggs, make a mean grilled cheese sandwich, put together a salad and do various things with ground beef, pasta, and sauce. He delights in having dinner ready for Steve when he gets in, because the poor guy is so worn out by the end of the day. 

Apparently, Steve doesn’t keep up with news aside from headlines. It’s amazing to have dinner-table conversations that don’t center around politics! Instead, Steve talks about things like artists he admires and the direction he’d like to take his own work in. On Steve's days off, they go sight-seeing...it's surprising how much fun they can have for not much more than the cost of a subway pass.

Little by little, TJ puts together a clearer picture of Steve and Bucky’s history. They grew up in the same neighborhood, but weren’t close until Steve came out and Bucky fended off some assholes who were bullying him. It’s more what Steve doesn’t say that gives TJ the impression that Barnes had a temper, and that the relationship with Steve hadn’t really been emotionally satisfying for either of them. Barnes was also sick of the crap jobs that were all he could get, and he didn’t suffer fools.

“He didn’t like being told what to do and he went and enlisted?!” That makes zero sense to TJ. 

Steve shrugged. “He liked it, the physical stuff at boot camp, and he thought the weapons training was awesome--his scores at the range were so high they made him a sniper, even though all the shooting he did before that was at the Coney Island shooting gallery.”

What worries TJ is what he’s going to do if/when Barnes returns. He’s a little surprised the guy hasn’t shown up, but maybe he’s enjoying life in the gilded cage. More power to him--TJ can’t remember the last time he was as happy as he’s been with Steve.

An even bigger problem is how he’s going to make money--TJ is going to have to find a real job. Barnes’s money won’t last forever and they can’t live on what Steve makes. Theoretically, that shouldn’t be a problem, because TJ has a legitimate degree in accounting… but of course, it’s in the name of TJ Hammond. And he has no useful references, either, because he’s always worked for one or the other of his parents. 

Waiting for Steve to get in one evening, TJ is flipping channels when he lands on the news. There’s Mom, speaking to the press in the Rose Garden about reviving the WPA Artists Initiative. In the background, TJ sees himself looking attentive--of course, it’s really Barnes. Then Barnes says something to the guy beside him, who smirks. They aren’t being overt, but it’s obvious to TJ they’re an item.

Hang on--that’s that snarky Secret Service agent who’d given him shit on the way out of town. “I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” TJ mutters. “Who charmed whose pants off, I wonder?”

Well, it answers the question of why Barnes hasn’t come back to New York. If he’s having a fling with Agent Barton, Barnes shouldn’t have an issue about TJ cohabiting with his boyfriend. Steve deserves better than Bucky Barnes, and while TJ doesn’t believe he himself is perfect, he wants Steve to be happy, not worried that any little thing is going to upset the man in his life. God, what’s he going to do if Barnes does show up?

To prove it’s never just one problem at a time, Steve comes home that evening with the dismal news that the inventory he’s been working on is finished, his assignment is over, and he’s going to need to find yet another job.

The next morning finds them going to the employment agency Steve is registered with. “Mr. Kovics is great, he’ll find you something. He always finds me jobs, even though my history is kind of spotty,” Steve confides. “He believes everybody who wants to work should have a job.”

Dave Kovics greets Steve like an old friend. “Welcome back, Steve! It’s Thursday, and you know what that means--everyone works on Thursday!” TJ is assigned to one of his assistants, Ms. Potts. She asks him questions about his background, which is awkward. He doesn’t have the credentials he needs for an accounting job, can’t type well enough for anything clerical, and Barnes’s official skill sets don’t exactly translate to the civilian sector.

“Any hobbies?” she asks, starting to look frustrated.

“I play the piano.”

She brightens considerably. “Really? Are you any good?”

“Yeah, I am.” This is no time for false modesty. “I started on my grandmother’s piano when I was about three, I’ve been playing ever since. Never did it professionally, but give me a chance, I can do it.”

“Hang on.” She pulls a file and dials a number. “Hi, Maria--it’s Pepper Potts with Employment Options. Are you still looking for someone? Okay…two o’clock? Great, I’ll send him over.” She looks pleased with herself as she hangs up. “I’ve got you an audition for this afternoon. We’ll see if you’re as good as you think you are.”

The theater is off-Broadway, in a neighborhood that looks self-consciously gentrified. The poster out front advertises “Bawdy Language Burlesque Review”. Burlesque? Really? Maybe someone has seen “Gypsy” one too many times. The building certainly looks old enough to have seen the days of vaudeville; he finds out later it was built in 1910.

Maria and Natasha are the owner-manager and headliner respectively, and apparently a couple besides. Maria has dark hair and an attitude to match. Natasha is a leggy redhead with a playful disposition. They show TJ over to the alcove beside the stage where the piano resides. There’s a stack of sheet music there, everything from Joplin and Tin Pan Alley to Glenn Miller to Henry Mancini. Most of the material he’s at least familiar with, thanks again to his grandmother. He can learn the rest, he figures.

TJ has always had a gift for being able to play by ear. He pounds out his favorite ragtime tunes, tickles the ivories with jazz and throws in some Nelson Riddle for good measure. He proves he knows his way around the keyboard, and, remembering one of his Nana’s scurrilous songs, sings the adult version of “Chattanooga Choo-Choo”: _Nothing could be finer than my dick in her vagina--_. 

Natasha is laughing, and Maria has cracked a smile by the time he’s done.

“You’ll do,” Maria says finally. “Can you start tonight?”

The hours involved in his new job mean TJ rarely gets home before three a.m.. He usually stays up til after Steve leaves for work--Dave has gotten him into a sign shop--then he snoozes until mid-afternoon, when he gets up and heads out to Bawdy Language. The old theater is closed on Mondays and Tuesdays, which are the only time he gets to see much of Steve. He enjoys the club--Maria and Natasha and the rest of the “girls” are fun to hang out with, but it would make his domestic situation a lot easier if he had a regular 9-5 job.

Little by little, TJ gets used to his new life. Taking the subway and the bus becomes second nature. New York slowly becomes more familiar, less intimidating. The job doesn’t pay a lot, but it’s enough to cover his expenses, and he manages to put something aside every week, even if it’s just a few dollars. By late June, his old life in D.C. seems like something that happened to someone else.

Worlds collide in June, on a Monday evening. TJ is fixing dinner, and Steve is flipping channels on the TV, when the words, “…attempt on the President’s life” bring TJ out of the kitchen at top speed. He grabs the remote and recalls the news from the sitcom Steve stopped on. 

“...gunman who infiltrated the event was stopped by the efforts of a secret service agent and the President’s own son, Thomas Hammond….”

TJ sinks down onto the couch. His hands are shaking. 

“Bucky?”

“No-- _that’s_ Bucky.”

The TV is showing the alleged Thomas Hammond, standing beside Secret Service Agent Barton, then the news anchor continues, “Their heroic actions prevented the gunman from reaching the President--” and there’s a clip of a man in a white chef’s jacket, only a few feet from Elaine Barrish being taken down by Barton, while Barnes shields her with his own body.

“Your boyfriend just saved my mother’s life,” TJ says, staring at the screen.

“Wait, your mom’s the President??!” Steve’s voice cracks, and he stares disbelievingly at TJ. 

He sighs. “Yeah. I’m TJ Hammond.”

“Holy shit.”

“It gets old pretty quick,” TJ tells him. “Protocol and being discreet and worrying about shit like that happening…then your pal Bucky came along. We swapped places--it was just supposed to be for the afternoon, but when they found out we were playing games in the Lincoln bedroom, I got hustled out of there in a hurry--they thought I was him--and I guess he likes it there, because it’s been what? Seven weeks? And he’s still there.”

Steve looks around the humble apartment. “I can’t say I blame him.”

“Are you kidding? This is okay. It’s not fancy, but I’d rather have you than that stick-up-the-ass Secret Service putz.”

“Yeah, well, that Secret Service putz is welcome to him,” Steve says earnestly. “I mean, Bucky’s my best friend, but he’s not boyfriend material, at least, not for me. I love him, but he’s too bossy. The funny thing is, I think he really wants someone to take charge and boss _him_ around--and that’s not me.”

TJ laughs. “Barton will take care of him! From what I’ve seen of the guy, he probably chews him out a couple times a day.”

“Great, so we’ve both got what we want. Um--is something burning?”

“Crap!” TJ flees back to the kitchen, where the pasta is boiling over.

Interestingly, Steve is more relaxed with him now that he knows the truth. By bedtime, he’s calling TJ TJ, not Bucky, and it gives TJ a little tingle hearing Steve say his name. It feels more real, somehow, as if they’ve been rehearsing up to this point, and now it counts for something.

It counts in the most intimate way, as Steve responds more ardently than he ever has. Each kiss counts…they’re concentrating on every caress, every sensation. TJ is tender; _he_ won’t treat Steve roughly. When at last they’re joined together, it’s more intimate than TJ believed it could be. His partner shivers with pleasure, making little whimpers of ‘Yes, yes, oh god, so good, yes!’ and that means more to TJ than his own enjoyment. He takes his time, takes pleasure in those happy moans and the way Steve arches and squeezes him. 

At last, when he judges that too much more and Steve will need his inhaler, he deftly works him to the peak, savoring the moment when Steve nearly screams as TJ coaxes him to climax.

TJ starts to pull out, but Steve wraps his legs tightly around his waist. “No, don’t go…I want you to finish in me.”

“Are you sure?” TJ wants to, but he’s afraid he’ll be too aggressive.

Steve’s blue eyes meet his, and he says, “Give it to me, TJ. Give me what you need.” Steve may have cum, but he’s still enthusiastic. He tightens around TJ, writhing and begging to feel TJ -- ‘God yes so hard give me that hard dick need you yes yes fuck me’--

He’s never been so vocal before, and it turns TJ on like crazy. Steve has always been so prim, so reserved--now he’s begging TJ to pound his ass, to give him everything, he wants it all, and TJ feels the rising tide of excitement welling up, his pace quickening, excitement desire need pulsing through him until he can’t hold back any longer. With a cry, he fountains into his willing partner, helpless as spasms of passion overwhelm him.

Afterward, he holds Steve close, as if he’ll disappear if TJ lets go. He never imagined, when he casually suggested swapping clothes with Barnes, that it would lead to this. He’s in love, him, Mr. No-Strings-Attached. Steve rubs his cheek against TJ’s chest and presses a sleepy kiss that makes his nipple stiffen. No, he certainly never thought, as he’d dallied with a series of ambitious manscaped gym-rats, that his heart would be captured by a skinny, asthmatic job-hopper from Brooklyn….

The next morning, after Steve has left for work, there’s a knock on the door. Which is a little odd, since usually visitors would ring the bell in the foyer downstairs. It must be a neighbor, or maybe the landlord.

He makes sure the chain is on the door, then opens it a crack.

Standing there is the last person he expected to see.

“Nana?!”

“Open the door,” she demands and he does. The two members of her detail take positions on either side of the door as she enters.

Okay, obviously she knows about Barnes. Is she here to take him back? Because he’s damned if he’s going to abandon Steve. Plus, there’s the matter of his job, which, although not exactly conventional, is still a job and he’s not just going to chuck it.

Margaret Barrish is looking carefully around the shabby apartment. Not up to her standards, that’s for sure. 

The paint may or may not have been white to begin with; now it’s a decidedly grimy beige. The window coverings are obviously bed sheets. The carpet is probably older than TJ. The sofa is the only newish thing in sight, and there’s a clawed area on one side where the former owner’s cat went to town on it.

“What are you doing here?” he asks. “How’s Mom? I saw the news--Barnes saved her? What’s going on? Is he planning to come back here? Because no, just _no_.”

She turns her steely-eyed glare on him. “Thomas Jefferson Hammond, do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in?”

Using his full name warns him of how serious she is. Usually if she’s annoyed it’s just “You little shit”. He goes on the defensive. 

“Look, the only thing I did that was questionable was fool around with Barnes in the Lincoln bedroom. We swapped clothes for grins and giggles, and the next thing I knew, I was getting hustled out to the airport with a ticket to New York. Okay, fine. I figured Barnes would enjoy some wealth and privilege, so I left him to it. Here I am, I’m getting by, I have a job--”

“Playing piano in a saloon,” she retorts.

The Secret Service has been busy, or maybe it was the FBI. “It’s not a saloon, it’s a burlesque review,” he counters. “Yes, I play the piano--I enjoy playing the piano! Hell, you’re the one who taught me to play. I never expected it would be a marketable skill, but since I’m not using my own name, I can’t take credit for my accounting degree--”

“TJ, stop. We need to talk.”

“Yes, ma’am. Coffee?”

“Sit,” she commands. He joins her on the sofa. “We didn’t find out about Barnes until last night, believe it or not. After the attack on your mother, it was pretty obvious that he wasn’t you. We’d known something was going on--he was a lot more formal with us that you are, for one thing, and he’s been spending a lot of time with that agent, Barton. Pretty sure there’s something going on there, if you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean,” he agrees, and can’t suppress a grin, remembering what Steve had said about Barnes wanting someone who’d boss him around. _I hope Barton tops the hell out of him._ “Look, Nana, I’m sorry, but it’s not just the job. I’ve met someone. He’s a good guy, and I want to be with him. I don’t want to go back.”

“That makes it easier,” she comments cryptically. “You mean that, TJ? You’re willing to give up your very comfortable life in Washington, the power and privilege, all your pretty conquests? Just so you know, Barnes broke it off with your fuck-buddy Sean. That's over and done with.”

His cheeks burn at that. “I’m happy here,” he says quietly. “I don’t have to live up to the family name, I can succeed or fail on my own merits. And Sean Reeves was just...convenient.”

“What about this roommate of yours?” Her tone is dismissive. “The one who can’t hold a job for more than six months at a time?”

TJ takes a deep breath. “His name is Steve. He’s an artist, currently working for a sign company. He has health issues--asthma and allergies--and when he gets sick, he gets fired because he’s always the new guy and they can always get someone else. He isn’t a slacker, he wants to work--his lungs just don’t cooperate sometimes.”

Margaret rolls her eyes. “An artist?”

“When he’s not trying to make a living.” He gets one of Steve’s sketch pads and shows it to her, determined to win some respect for his boyfriend.

“The kid’s got talent,” she says finally. “Too bad.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“A lot of people have talent of one kind or another. Trying to make a living with it? That’s the heartbreaking part. It’s like that old song, kiddo--’All the stars that never were are parking cars and pumping gas’.” TJ is furious, but before he can lash out, she continues. “Anyway, if you want to stay here, we can work it out. It seems Sergeant Barnes is happy to stay on in an unofficial capacity. He’s now acting as part of your mother’s detail. We weren’t sure if you wanted to return, but I’ll give them the green light on Barnes doubling for you.”

TJ gasps with relief. They’re not going to give him crap about staying.

“However.”

Well, that didn’t last long.

“I have your credit cards here…” She’s rummaging in her over-sized tote bag. “You’ll get a monthly stipend--about what you were drawing in salary when you were working in the campaign office--so you don’t need to work at that--review.”

That’s more than enough to pay the rent and utilities, even if Steve gets laid off or sick. And while he may not technically need to play at Bawdy Language any more, he enjoys it.

He stares at the card she hands him. “Wait, you got me cards in Barnes’s name?”

“We opened up a shiny new bank account just for you, in his name. I think it may have cost your father a small favor.” She smirks. Margaret Barrish is no fan of her former son-in-law. “Your assets are staying where they are. That way, when your mother’s term is up and no one is paying attention to us anymore, you can resume your own identity.”

It’s typically Byzantine Hammond family plotting, and TJ is glad to be on the outskirts of it.

“Although I must say, Barnes is earning his keep. In addition to keeping an eye on your mother, he and Barton have taken Douglas in hand and they’ve been keeping him out of trouble.”

“Really?” TJ is impressed. For years, he’s been trying to coax Doug to stop drinking and drugging, but his twin seems to have an insatiable appetite for controlled substances. He’s wrecked three expensive sports cars (Thank God no one was hurt), made Page Six more times than anyone wants to count, and though he’d been engaged to a sweet girl that the whole family adored, Annie broke it off because she was convinced she’d wind up a widow before she was thirty-five.

“They’ve had him out running. No, I don’t mean jogging--they’ve out there on the track with him, running him around the White House grounds and herding him like a couple of border collies. He’s dropped at least ten pounds, hasn’t even had wine at dinner in weeks, and apparently he’s dried out. Your mother is ecstatic.”

“That’s great. Hell, that’s enough to justify Barnes staying all by itself.”

“We’ll see.” She looks at him for a long moment. “Kiddo, don’t think we aren’t going to miss you. The Sarge is okay, but he isn’t you.”

“I miss you guys, too--but I don’t miss the life.” TJ gazes at her, trying to express something he’s never tried to articulate before. “It feels like I’ve spent my whole life being ’The son of’--son of the Governor, son of the Secretary of State, son of the President--I’ve never just been me! Here, I’m Jimmy the piano player, and I’m okay with that. I know you think it’s an awful come-down, but to me, it’s like I’m free for the first time in my life!”

“I understand.” She smiles sadly. “Kiddo, you’ve got guts. But hey, don’t think you can’t change your mind, or reach out to us if you need to.” She delves into the bag again. “Cell phone. Preprogrammed with everyone’s number…it doesn’t need to be an emergency for you to call.”

TJ leans over and hugs her. “Thanks, Nana. I promise, I’ll call you.”

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily! I’m staying in town for a few days to visit some old friends and maybe see a show or two…and we have to do something about this dump.”

By the time Steve returns from work, the grotty old carpet has been removed, and TJ is on the phone arguing with the designer that Margaret Barrish has imported. He’s perfect happy to get rid of carpet entirely and refinish the wood floors beneath; they’re worn, but not splintery. An area rug in the living room, maybe, but carpets trap dust and other allergens and Steve doesn’t need to be exposed to that. They can always put down some cheap carpet before they move, if they move, which they have no plans to do, thanks.

Steve is eyeing the bare floor with alarm. “The damage deposit,” he whimpers. “I’m pretty sure this is going to invalidate it.”

“I’ll pay you back,” TJ soothes him. “And I’ll bet you breathe a lot better without that moldy old carpet. And we’re gonna get some decent drapes and a couch that isn’t lousy with cat dander. We’ll get a bigger TV, too--we can stick this one in the bedroom.” The bedroom has already received a new mattress, new linens, curtains and a new shade on the window. Steve goes in there to change his shirt, and comes out wide-eyed.

Dinner is lavish, three different kinds of take-out, but Steve just looks at TJ, kind of freaked out. “What the hell, TJ? I go to work, everything is normal, I come home and everything’s inside-out. What happened? We can’t afford this!”

“My grandmother happened. After the attempt on my mom yesterday, your pal Bucky disclosed his true identity, they figured out where I was and sent my Nana to make sure I was okay. She took one look at this place, didn’t like it, and called her decorator.”

“TJ!” Steve’s anxiety is palpable. “What about you? Are you in trouble? Are you--are you going back?”

“I’m staying right here,” he says, embracing his partner. “And I’m going to have an income, enough to cover the bills with or without a job, not that I’m planning to quit.” He kisses Steve, who still looks worried. “Barnes is staying on in DC, apparently he’s found someone to boss him around. We’re all gonna live happily ever after.”

Their lives settle back into routine once the apartment make-over is completed. Steve keeps looking around as if he can’t quite believe he lives here, but TJ was right: without the ancient carpets, Steve is breathing better. With the added income, TJ takes advantage of the local produce markets and cooks healthier meals with seasonal ingredients. Steve begins to look less like he’s wearing his big brother’s clothes, and he visibly has more energy.

It turns out that Steve’s birthday is the 4th of July, and this year, oh happy day, it falls on a Monday, so TJ doesn’t have to work and they can celebrate together. Nothing fancy--Steve is happy to have a picnic on the roof of their building. He assures TJ that there’s a good view of the fireworks over the harbor, so late on the afternoon of the 4th, that’s where they are. 

They don’t have a grill, but TJ has acquired an electric skillet and an extension cord. He’s got a cooler for the homemade tomato-and-cucumber salad, the potato salad from a nearby deli, and drinks. The mini cake is still downstairs in its bakery box. TJ doesn’t want it to melt, which it would--they’re having a fierce heatwave.

Showing his Brooklyn roots, Steve wants fried bologna sandwiches. Bologna isn’t something TJ’s grown up with, but according to Steve, it was a delicacy, something he and Bucky often made--”Usually cooked over a fire in an old coffee can,” he says nostalgically.

“You’re the birthday boy,” TJ acquiesces, though he makes sure to have a package of hot dogs on hand just in case.

Fried bologna sandwiches turn out to be better than TJ expected, and they eat sandwiches and both kinds of salad, and they’re happy and relaxed, until Steve’s phone rings.

Steve looks at it with an expression of disbelief and holds it up. The caller display reads “TJ Hammond’.

After a moment, he presses the ‘Accept’ button. “Hello? Uh…hi, Bucky.” He looks anxious, and TJ feels a knot in his stomach. “Oh, pretty good…yeah, I’m working at a sign shop in Bay Ridge. No, it’s not like that, I just make decals, I don’t go out on jobs much…I’m not falling off ladders, thanks. So what about you, are you good there? Uh-huh…what’s he like?”

Steve listens to Barnes while TJ sits gripping a plastic tumbler of iced tea. He doesn’t _think_ Barnes is going to bail on the detail and come back to New York, but what if--?

“He wants to talk to you,” Steve says unexpectedly a few minutes later, and TJ warily takes the phone. 

“Hello?”

“Hey, Hammond. How’s it going? You taking good care of my pal Steve?”

“He’s good. Getting the apartment deep-cleaned helped a lot. How are my folks?”

“Your mom’s pretty amazing. Your dad would lay anything that would stand still long enough. Your bro was a hot mess, but me and Clint have shaped him up.”

“Clint?”

“Clint Barton.” Barnes sounds impatient. “The agent who saved your mom’s ass from that yahoo with a plastic gun? Sheesh, pay attention.”

“Oh yeah, the guy who said I was a disgrace to your uniform as he shipped me out of town.”

Barnes chuckles. “Yeah, he was pissed off enough to have a word with me about that--except of course, he thought I was you. But not for long.” He’s almost purring at the memory. “We hit it off, so I decided to stick around. You’re welcome to Brooklyn. Put Steve back on.”

TJ hands the phone back to Steve. 

“I’m here. Yeah, he’s a good guy. Sure, he’s treating me right. Really, Buck, it’s all good. Yeah. Thanks, I will. Bye.” Steve puts the phone down. “He just called to wish me a happy birthday,” he tells TJ. “It sounds like he’s pretty serious about that Barton guy. I’m glad. Even if he’s not the right guy for me, we’ve been friends for a long time. It’s good that he’s got someone.”

That’s typical Steve--concerned about his friend even thought their relationship had been a rocky one. TJ manages to smile. “I’m just glad that he’s happy where he is.”

Later, as the sun is setting, TJ retrieves the cake and brings it up to the roof. He’s got number candles proclaiming “28”, because expecting Steve to blow out 28 actual candles is asking too much of his asthmatic lungs. 

“Make a wish!” he says as he sets the cake down on the cooler. Steve smiles, takes a deep breath and extinguishes the twin flames with one gust. 

In keeping with the no-frills atmosphere of their party, they attack the cake with their forks, not bothering to divide it. They feed each other bites of chocolate cake, occasionally pelting each other with the fluffy white icing. TJ can’t remember the last time he felt so relaxed and happy. 

As the sky darkens, other tenants make their way to the roof for the fireworks display. So much for PDAs--TJ has to content himself with holding Steve’s hand as they watch the show. The fireworks flare above the water, painting the sky over the harbor with phosphorescent colors. Some expand like giant glowing chrysanthemums, others form circles within circles against the black velvet of night. It’s spectacular, then a final barrage spells out “USA”.

“That was amazing,” TJ says as he drains ice-melt from the cooler and gets ready to haul it downstairs. 

“Best birthday ever,” Steve agrees. He’s got the box with the electric skillet and lightweight items. “But I hope the fireworks aren’t over for the night.”

TJ’s smile widens. The cooler suddenly feels a lot lighter. He carries it down two flights of stairs, followed by Steve with the other supplies. He makes sure the remaining perishables are in the refrigerator.

Then they make some fireworks of their own.

 

…


End file.
